It just should have gone to Washington or a museum, he thought again.

He understood why Henri had insisted it stay in Lily. He wanted to know who’d gotten hold of the skull—and who’d put it in the basement storage room of the Gilded Lily.

“Sheriff Sloan Trent,” he said, accepting her hand and nodding to the others in acknowledgment. They all greeted him in turn, either as Sloan or as Sheriff—as if that was his given name. There wasn’t a lot of formality in Lily.

“I’m here to take you to our offices. We have a room prepared for you to work in. I hope you’ll find everything you need.”

She nodded. “I bring most of my own supplies,” she said, patting the black case she carried over her shoulder. “We should be fine. Thank you, Sheriff.”

“My pleasure, Agent Everett. You ready?”

“I am.”

There was a chorus of “lovely to meet you” and “nice to make your acquaintance” and other cordial statements as they left the stage area and headed out, along with “See you later, Sloan!”

He led the way to his SUV—then hesitated. He’d been raised to open doors for ladies, but wasn’t sure what the protocol was with an agent. He decided he’d be damned if he was going to change. He opened the passenger door. She thanked him as she slid in.

An awkward silence followed as he drove down Main Street, then along the paved road that passed by a smattering of houses and ranches on small plots, and finally larger tracts as he traveled the six miles from the heart of Lily to the modern “downtown” area of town.

She broke the silence.

“So, Logan said he sometimes worked with you in Texas. But you’re from Lily?” she asked.

“I am,” he told her.

“It’s really remarkable,” she said. Her voice seemed strained; she was obviously trying to be pleasant and cheerful. “The town, I mean—not that you’re from it.”

“It’s remarkable in its preservation, I suppose. Tombstone is similar, but far better-known. The gunfight at the O.K. Corral and all that,” he said. “We had our share of outlaws, but none that caught the American imagination like Wyatt Earp and his brothers. Of course, Wyatt Earp wrote books that fostered the popular conception of the Old West.”

“Ah, but Lily has the Gilded Lily,” Jane said.

“And Tombstone has the Birdcage.” He glanced her way. “But the Gilded Lily has never been closed. It’s been an operating theater since it first opened. And while the Birdcage had its ‘cages’ or ‘cribs’ in balconies so its ladies of the night could entertain during performances, the Gilded Lily pretended to be a totally legitimate theater. The working ladies only entertained clients in their rooms upstairs—and that was to keep from losing clientele to the saloon and ‘entertainment’ center across the street. Of course, the Gilded Lily tried for a higher class of clientele,” Sloan said.

She laughed softly. “Convenient where they placed the Old Jail. Right next to the Gilded Lily...”

“Within shouting distance,” he agreed.

“And across the street from the saloon.”

“Either way, you could walk prisoners into a cell within a few hundred feet,” he said. He glanced at her. “You’re from Texas?”

“Yes,” she said. “San Antonio,” she added. “Though I did work with different agencies around the state until I joined Logan’s Krewe.”

“You always wanted to be an artist?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I was always drawing,” she said.

They’d reached the sheriff’s office. He pulled into the lot in front.

The office wasn’t really that small—not when you considered the size of the town. The building had been constructed in the 1930s by someone who’d evidently been to Toledo, Spain, and fallen in love with the medieval architecture. There was a tower on either front corner, and the roof was tile while the exterior was brick. The parking lot held room for at least twenty cars—someone had been optimistic about the growth of Lily. To the left, where the offices were located, were a bank, a coffee house, a Mexican restaurant and an Italian restaurant. To the right was an Asian restaurant and a Brazilian steak house, along with the area’s mall—an enclosure of about eight shops. Lily could proudly say that there were three national chain stores among them.

The biggest excitement in town had occurred when they’d acquired one of the country’s largest burger chains, which had chosen to locate in the mall. Keeping offices in old adobe homes or the occasional professional building were a few lawyers, accountants, doctors and decorators. The high school was just half a mile back toward the old town.

“Not such a small place,” she said cheerfully as he parked and they exited the car.

“Small enough that the skull should have been sent to a lab,” Sloan murmured.

He realized that his antagonism toward her became apparent with his careless words when she made a barely perceptible movement, stiffening. She stood by the car, looking at him, and he saw the hardness that came into her eyes.

“I’m really proficient at what I do, Sheriff. You don’t need to worry that my work will be lacking in any way.”

He could have said something to try to smooth her ruffled feathers; he didn’t. He just shrugged. “Since this isn’t a new murder, I’m sure your work will be more than sufficient.”

He felt the chill of her eyes. “Sheriff, I will certainly try very hard to do work that’s sufficient.”

He hadn’t meant to make matters worse. On the other hand, he could hardly have been more rude. Once again, an explanation or an apology might seem lame, so he indicated the door and said, “That didn’t come out the way I meant it. I’m sure you’re excellent at what you do. Come in and meet the staff—all two of the rest of our day crew.”

She turned, not waiting for him, and entered through the front door.

Deputy Betty Ivy was on duty at the desk when they came in. Again, someone had been overoptimistic about the growth of Lily. There were three offices for senior law officials, but since they only had six law officials all told—three on days, three at night, reduced to two at various hours to avoid overtime—one office was usually empty. Betty often manned the front desk during the day. Lamont Atkins, an easygoing man in his mid-forties who managed to maintain more control with a quiet voice than any swaggering might accomplish, also worked the day shift. Lamont started his day by touring around in town; he liked to show that the sheriff’s department was ever-vigilant. Chet Morgan rounded out his day crew.

As they walked in, Jane Everett breezed right up and introduced herself to Betty with professional charm before Sloan could make the introductions. From his office behind the entry, Chet Morgan rose and came out to join them by the front desk, grinning and friendly as he met Jane.

“We’ve set up the skull in the interrogation room,” Betty said, standing. “I’ve got a scanner in there, camera connected to the computer, sketch pad... I’ve watched a few forensic programs, so I thought you might want to take a lot of pictures and do whatever you do to get that 3-D image thing going. I mean, the computer has a camera, but I wasn’t sure how you’d move it around to get the right angles, so...well, anything you need, we’ll do our best to get for you.”

“That’s perfect, thank you. Actually, more than perfect. I have my own instruments for measurements. I’ll probably do what I call an imagination sketch today—just what I see from the skull,” Jane told her. “It’s late, and I’ve come in from the D.C. area, so I’m little travel-weary. Tomorrow, I’ll start with the measurements.”

“I’m intrigued to see your work!” Betty said enthusiastically.

Betty was a good woman—and a good deputy. When he’d come back to Lily, Sloan had been surprised that she hadn’t wanted the job of sheriff herself. A widow with two grown children, she’d worked for the department most of her adult life. But she hadn’t wanted the responsibility of being sheriff. She had iron-gray hair, cheerful blue eyes and a way of handling the occasional drunk or kid working on a misspent youth with unshakeable stoicism and a calm demeanor. She had the ability to convince both drunks and adolescents that they weren’t going anywhere—they’d pay the price for their transgressions before a judge and no fast-talking lawyer was getting them out of the clink that night. Sloan had told her that being sheriff of Lily wasn’t really a matter of heavy responsibility but Betty had said, “Oh, Sloan, small towns can still have big problems. I like being a deputy. You run for sheriff. I’ll vote for you!”

“Ms. Everett—Agent Everett!” Chet said, quickly correcting himself. “Anything you need, you let me know!”

Chet was only twenty-six. He was staring at Jane Everett as if Marilyn Monroe had risen from the grave and floated into their offices. He was as good and solid a deputy as Betty, just...young. Tall, a bit awkward, Chet had served in the military as a sharpshooter before returning to Lily—and a parade in his honor. Lily was small; the return of a serviceman was an occasion to be celebrated.

“Agent, come with me, if you will,” Sloan said. “I’ll show you your workroom. And the skull.”

“Well, show her the kitchen and where to find coffee, too, huh?” Betty said, frowning at Sloan before turning to smile at Jane again. “We’ve got sodas, coffee, snacks, you name it. Kitchen’s the first door on the left down that hall and you help yourself to anything. Oh, and you have an intercom in there. If you need me for anything, just push the button and call me.”

Jane thanked Betty and Chet and followed Sloan down the hall. He opened the door to Interrogation Room A. They also had Interrogation Rooms B and C, but they’d never actually used A to interrogate anyone, much less B or C.

He opened the door and turned on the lights. There was a desk with a computer and they’d also set up a graphic arts easel with a large sketch pad for their guest. As she’d said, Betty had supplied their guest with a camera, computer, scanner, tracing paper, “tissue markers,” wire and mortician’s wax. The skull itself had been set in the middle of a conference table in the center of the room; it was on a stand, minus the wig and with a few adjustments. Sloan hadn’t known much about reconstructing a lifelike image from a skull, but Betty had done some research and had some help from a professor friend in Tucson. The skull had been angled to the best of the professor’s ability at a “Frankfurt plane,” or the anatomical position of the skull as it naturally sat on the body.